


Methodology

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:31:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And this is why, on a Saturday afternoon when she could be on a regular romantic date with her boyfriend like most girls, Momoi Satsuki is discussing statistics and tactics with her boyfriend instead. Momoi Satsuki is not most girls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Methodology

The music is soft in the background, inconsequential and nonintrusive. The waitress refills her coffee cup, and the pink-haired young woman smiles and gives a nod of thanks. Her gaze returns to the young man across from her, who looks like he's about to explode.

"THIRTY-FIVE PERCENT?" Wakamatsu shouts, slamming his fists on the table. The ice leaps almost out from his glass, and tea spills from the top onto the table. Luckily, none lands on the spreadsheet between them that Momoi holds in place, pointing with one hand to a number.

"Over the summer, he's been working on his weaknesses outside of team-mandated training, as I predicted. Obviously, the rebounding has been an issue for him but you're still leaps and bounds above him. But he seems to have realized that going left instead of right in that situation seriously reduces his effectiveness. Either he's been watching tapes or he's gotten outside help or both, because there's no way he figured this out on his own."

"Still, reducing the percentage of times he goes left from fifty-five to twenty in just a few months? That's crazy impossible!"

She taps the number with her finger, remaining silent. She doesn't need to spell it out for him.

"Oh! So then, if he gets in a position we set up to defend the right side. Even if he does go left, not doing it as much in games is going to make him even worse."

"How long do you think it'll take him to catch on?" she asks, some kind of glimmer in her eye.

"His coach will before he does," he replies almost instantly.

She nods. "Yeah, all the signs point to that. As much as he's improved physically, he's still not very…I don't exactly want to say smart here…"

"Observant?"

"Yeah, that's the right word." She pulls back the spreadsheet and shoves it into the large tote bag that leans against her chair, although she leaves one hand outstretched on the table. He covers her hand in his. His must be twice the size of hers, but are rather used to holding things. She sips her coffee, and he runs a hand through his short blonde hair.

"You told coach all of this?"

She nods. "Most of it. He'll relay the important stuff to the rest of the team."

They briefly discuss their opponents for the game after next, but that one seems to be more straightforward so far. Even so, data and strategy must be brought to the table (so to speak) for every game. Because that is how Touou Academy has clawed its way to a place among the top high school basketball programs in Japan, through elite players who have the mental skills to go with their physical skills and can analyze the situations. A classic Touou player really knows the game and its rhythms and idiosyncrasies, and is always prepared for multiple outcomes. The possible outcomes are Momoi's to project, and she does her job well, far better than any who have come before her. And this is why, on a Saturday afternoon when she could be on a regular romantic date with her boyfriend like most girls, Momoi Satsuki is discussing statistics and tactics with her boyfriend instead. Momoi Satsuki is not most girls.

She's more than okay with this, though. After all, had it not been for said statistics and tactics (for this basketball team in particular) they might not have met. She's a romantic at heart, and allows herself some indulgences in believing in fate. Not in basketball, never in basketball (nothing is a foregone conclusion there, no matter what Akashi says) but in love and other matters, yes. Sometimes.

Their conversation eventually turns to other subjects. School, Wakamatsu's college plans, politics, the NBA, but it all comes back to their next game. Not that it means very much in the scheme of things, as it's just a practice game, but they're getting into high gear for the Interhigh preliminaries. A strong finish there is all but assured for them, of course, but again nothing is sure. If anything was sure there would be no reason to play the games, would there?

They leave the café, satisfied for now. It's Momoi's turn to pay, and she leaves a generous tip. After all, what other place would put up with Wakamatsu's loud voice and the duration (three-plus hours) of their visit, in which they'd only purchased inexpensive drinks that came with free refills?

He waits for her and then slings an arm around her. They've gotten used to the height difference now, though it had been more than a bit awkward at first. "We'll win for sure!" he says emphatically.

"Tell that to the team, too. They need it from their captain."

"You don't?" He pretends to pout.

"I know that already."

* * *

 

The third quarter is over when Aomine finally shows up. Wakamatsu, of course, goes on a tirade and almost punches him. This is actually the nail in the coffin for the opposing team. They've fought through three quarters, are behind by seven, and can barely stand or breathe normally. The other team's captain, who's been involved in every play, has enough energy not only to stand but to loudly and vigorously chew out another member of his team, not to mention the ace who's about to get into the game.

"AND YOU'RE NOT PLAYING MORE THAN TWO MINUTES THIS QUARTER!" Wakamatsu shouts.

Harasawa sighs. Since when has Wakamatsu made those decisions?

Still, putting Aomine in for two minutes allows them to pull away and there's really no point in keeping him in at this point, might as well give some minutes to the bench players. Wakamatsu shuts them down with his defense and Touou scores a few more points. They win by a very large margin, and it's easy for them to be pleased with themselves.

Except, of course, Wakamatsu, who's still yelling at Aomine.

Momoi sighs. She's never met two people who just refuse to get along as much as these two. They're both incredibly stubborn, and they're exactly the kind of people who push one another's buttons just by being themselves. Aomine can't stand Wakamatsu's undying enthusiasm, and Wakamatsu hates Aomine's unashamed laziness. And even after a year and a half of knowing one another, they don't get along any better than they did the first time they met.

Still, today went well. They're all improving and making smart decisions when they have the ball, which is the most important thing.

"Satsuki!" She whips around and Wakamatsu gathers her in his arms. He smells like shower gel and sweat, the latter of which permeates everything when you're around basketball as much as they are. He plants a firm kiss on her lips. "We're going to your house, right?"

She nods, and they set off for the train station. The sun is sinking in the sky, shadows lengthening into towers separated by the glowing, dimming light.

"Even after the coach told him to go left more, he didn't really. I was sure he would." Wakamatsu scowls.

"I knew he wouldn't. That's why I told you to keep on the right side. He can't just put aside his training. He doesn't fake that often; he doesn't hesitate. What you see is what you get with him, and he can get away with it sometimes because of his speed. But he doesn't hesitate, and his instincts have been trained so that he automatically goes right so once he follows them and starts going right he can't really recover and go left."

"Yeah, that fake thing is weird. I keep expecting him to have just picked it up by now, but I guess he never will." They pause at the corner to wait for the light. "Hey, what was the split after the middle of the second quarter for right-left?"

Momoi purses her lips. She can see the scorecard in her mind, the math she'd just done…"Seventy-three to twenty-seven."

"Wow."

They've reached the platform; there are five minutes until the next train. He winds his fingers through the ends of her hair, catching on the knots that have formed. She reaches up to touch his chin, then stands on her tiptoes and kisses him softly.

They're so wrapped up in one another they almost miss the train, but somehow they don't.

* * *

 

Her parents are away on business, which is why they're staying at her house tonight. They're actually okay with this arrangement; they like him a lot. There aren't a lot of people who can keep up with their daughter in regards to both intelligence level and energy level. But it's always more exciting when you have the house to yourselves. Even though they aren't actually independent, they feel a bit like they are.

That is, until they heat up frozen meals for dinner because they're atrocious cooks and they can't make heads or tails of any recipes. Still, what they're eating doesn't matter as much as the company.

Unsurprisingly, Wakamatsu's a loud lover. He moans her name, over and over, almost theatrically (although she can tell he's not faking, and just knowing that she can leave him this much at a loss for words makes her heart start beating much faster) and even his body is loud. The mattress creaks when he settles on top of it, on top of her. By this time his shirt is unbuttoned but still on him, while hers is completely off although she's still wearing a bra. Fingers fumble, but eventually undo the clasps and buttons and zippers until it's skin on skin and she feels like she's on fire. He works fast; his tactics are sound.

Most girls would fall asleep silently or try to whisper sweet nothings into their boyfriends' ears. Momoi Satsuki falls asleep exchanging muttered statistics from that day's game with her boyfriend. Momoi Satsuki is not most girls.

**Author's Note:**

> xposted on fanfiction.net


End file.
